Pietro had moved to the chair beside her bed by then, and when he sat, it was with that same careful economy of movement that I had noticed from the beginning, never making a show of it, never asking anyone to look away or pretend not to see. Sophie noticed too, but where other people might have gotten awkward, she only seemed to relax more.
“Do you name your canes?” she asked.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek.
Pietro looked almost offended. “Of course not.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “That was too fast. You absolutely have.”
“I have not.”
“Liar.” She pointed at him. “You look like a man who names things in secret and then denies it under torture.”
His mouth twitched again, and I saw it coming before he said anything.
“For the record,” he said, “if I did name it, I would also deny it under torture. Your reasoning is flawed.”
Sophie laughed, bright and immediate, and just like that it was gone. Any lingering weirdness, any awkwardness about me smuggling a man into her room after surgery, any caution she might have had about Pietro being older, richer, more intimidating, more everything than the boys she actually knew—gone.
“Can I still get stickers for a cane?” she asked.
Pietro looked at her as though taking the question with grave seriousness. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the stickers are tasteful.”
Sophie gasped. “There will be no taste. Only chaos.”
“Then yes,” he said solemnly. “Definitely stickers.”
I looked between them and felt something warm deep in my chest. Something close to wonder.
This was what mattered, in the end. Not the money, not the danger, not the plane or the hotel or the terrifying family empire waiting for him in Chicago. It was this. The way he sat in my sister’s hospital room as if he had always known how to fit himself into the tender places of other people’s lives without making it about him. The way he made space. The way he listened.
Sophie was still grinning at him like she had discovered some kind of rare artifact she fully intended to keep.
“I like you,” she announced.
“That,” he said after a second, “is an honor I will try not to squander.”
Sophie nodded“Good. Because you’re clearly in love with my sister and I need to know your long-term intentions involve continued excellent behavior.”
I covered my face with one hand. “Oh my God.”
“What?” Sophie asked. “You said he was serious.”
Pietro looked at me then, and whatever answer he might have given her remained unspoken, something in his eyes going softer.
And standing there in that room, watching my little sister claim him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I felt a dangerous certainty settle quietly into place.
He fit.
Not in the obvious ways.
In the ways that mattered.
“Think about what you’d want,” Pietro told Sophie, leaning back in the chair like the matter was already settled. “Color, shape, whether you want elegant, intimidating, or complete chaos. Then when you’re on the East Coast, we’ll go and have it done properly.”
